


So wise so young, they say do never live long.

by BigBloodyShip



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, I tried?, M/M, Sorry but this is so confusing and messy and weird, i don't know what this is, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigBloodyShip/pseuds/BigBloodyShip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn’t supposed to happen. Q was so young and so clever and had such a promising career and such a blindingly bright future ahead of him. He was supposed to tear down walls and topple regimes and slay countless giants. He wasn’t supposed to be found dead in his flat with a bullet in the back of his head. This was never how things were supposed to end.</p><p>Now, James Bond has nothing left of his former quartermaster – not even a single clue that might lead him to Q’s killer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So wise so young, they say do never live long.

**Author's Note:**

> So this randomly came into my head and I decided to quickly get it out. I didn't refine it much, so the quality's not that great - I just had to write it down before the concept escaped me. So it's quite a mess. Really quite awful. Maybe I'll re-write it when I have time? So sorry. Anyway, kudos if you know what the title is a reference to. (As for time setting, let's say this takes place a year or so after Skyfall.)

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Q was so young and so clever and so pretty and had such a promising career and such a blindingly bright future ahead of him. He was supposed to tear down walls and topple regimes and slay countless giants. He wasn’t supposed to be found dead in his flat with a bullet in the back of his head. This was never how things were supposed to be.

And yet, here was James Bond, standing In the middle of Q’s flat, with the boy in question slumped limply on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

Slowly, James kneels down next to the body – no longer Q, but an empty vessel, a hollow husk. It’s painful to see how wide his eyes are, frozen open in a mute mixture of bewilderment and terror. They had once been so animated, flickering across computer screens and strings of codes, so full of life and so full of remarkable intelligence. Now, they are glassy and still, disturbingly doll-like. Gently, James removes Q’s glasses, the lenses cracked from the impact of his body hitting the ground, folds them, and sets them to the side. He passes his hand over Q’s eyes to close their near-translucent lids. It does not feel like he is touching flesh.

There is a sickly blue tint to Q’s lips, and James’ eyes travel down his jawline and to the delicate curve of his throat, where he sees flesh as cold and smooth and white as marble mottled with dark purple splotches. His fingers and wrists bear similar markings. He had struggled and fought against his attacker, and he had lost. They had tried to strangle him first – perhaps they’d caught him by surprise – and when he had fought back, they had perhaps tired of his surprising tenacity, and had finished the job quickly with a bullet to his skull.

The blood on the ground, on Q’s face and body, and now on James’ hands, is still warm. If James had arrived a few minutes earlier, he might have been able to stop Q’s killer. He might have been able to save his quartermaster. And Q would not be lying dead on the ground.

How desperately James wants to call out his name, but what is the use in that? He will never respond. He will never smile at him again, their fingers will never brush again, their lips will never touch again, and James will never hear that silk-smooth voice again.

He sits there for what might have been days, months, or even years, holding Q’s hand and stroking his dark curls with a tenderness that he didn’t even knew he had. He tries to ignore how his hair is matted with blood and how still his hand is, and he finds himself wondering yet again why everyone he loves always finds an early grave, and why everything he touches always turns to ash.

Of all the people to take away from him, why Q? He had been so lovely and so young and so fiercely intelligent. James was supposed to be the first of them to go, be it in the field, or from old age. He had never imagined that Q would die before him and leave him alone. But James supposes that in the end, beauty does not last and youth means nothing.

He does not cry, though he comes dangerously close to it.

People come in. Their faces don’t register in James’ mind. They cover Q’s body with a sheet and take him away. They have to drag James out of the flat. If he had his way, he’d probably stay in there forever.

Q-Branch is put on temporary suspension as specialists are sent in to decrypt the computers to see if Q has been keeping any dangerous secrets that might have made him a target. They are unable to get through his firewalls, and the investigation skids to a halt. Q’s flat and office are emptied out, and all of his belongings are burned and disposed of. The infamous Scrabble mug disappears and is never seen again. M writes a brief obituary, full of lamentations that Q had died young. James had expected as much. He tells himself not to read it, but is unable to stop himself, and he regrets it almost immediately. Finally, all of Q’s records at MI6 are deleted and destroyed.

It is as if Q had never existed.

Of course, James gets questioned.

 _The first suspect is always the victim’s lover. There’s nothing to worry about_ , M assures him, _It’s just routine. Nobody really thinks that you killed Q._

He misses the funeral and instead spends Sunday morning sitting in a sickeningly sterile white room, with two suited strangers staring back at him and asking, _Where were you on the night of the murder? Who were you with? Did you ever argue with him? Did your arguments ever become violent? Did you ever hit him? Were there any special assignments that he was working on? And were you aware of those assignments? It is our understanding that he worked with other Double-0 agents – did it ever make you jealous? We’ve looked into the results of some of your recent psychological evaluations. They indicate an alarming instability. Was he aware of your mental state?_

 _I loved him_ , James tells them, _I loved him, and that was all._

_This does not concern any of you._

_I didn’t kill him._

_He knew everything about me. He knew what a mess I am. He didn’t care._

_If I had the chance, I would have asked him to marry me._

_I loved him._

_That was all._

It turns out that M’s assurances had meant very little.

Three days later, James finds himself on trial. M promises him the best lawyer that he can find, but that doesn’t help much, either.

 _I didn’t kill him_ , he says, _I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill him._

_I loved him._

Nobody is listening to him. Nobody can hear him.

He is found guilty of first-degree murder, wilful and pre-meditated, and he is sentenced to life imprisonment.

They put him in solitary confinement, somewhere in Northern Ireland, he thinks – he’s long since stopped caring. He is sent off to waste away, alone in a concrete cell where he will contemplate a crime that he did not commit for the rest of his life.

Q is dead.

007 is dead, too. Now, there is only James Bond, convicted murderer.

He spends the first day lying on the creaky old cot they’ve provided, staring at the space above him and trying to remember the sound of Q’s voice. On the second day, he counts all the cracks in the ceiling. He paces over seven thousand circles around his cell on the third day. The fourth day is spent being pulled halfway between heaven and hell – he tries desperately to hold on to what he has left of Q, clutching at fragments of memories and holding on for dear life, but he is so terribly torn, because the more he thinks of Q, the more alone he feels, and the more deeply it hurts.

He sleeps through the fifth and sixth days. His dreams are fitful and full of shadows. They both terrify and comfort him, because only there is Q at his side.

_You are innocent, James._

_Everything will make sense soon._

_Don’t give in. You’re still living._

_You still have me._

He wakes up delirious and cold to the bone. 

Who had murdered Q? Why would anyone want to come after him? The only reasonable explanation was that he had somehow crossed a boundary in his hacking of enemy systems and had done something that warranted some sort of extreme retaliation. But Q guarded himself well and took extreme measures to ensure that his own identity was secure. Not even James had ever known his real name. MI6 had also implemented significant measures to protect its quartermaster – he was an asset of extraordinary value. There was no way that an outsider could have discovered who was behind the computer, tracked him down, and killed him.  

But how, and why, had the crime been pinned on James? M had insisted that there was nothing that could incriminate James, yet, here he was in solitary confinement at a maximum security prison.

On the seventh day, M comes to see him.

A guard handcuffs James, leads him to another room with more cold concrete walls, and sits him down at a table across from M before exiting the room, leaving the two of them alone.

James is aware of what a complete mess he must look like. He hasn’t shaved for the entire week, and there are dark bags under his eyes. He is sure that his face appears positively ghastly.

 _We had him cremated_ , M tells him, and James is inexplicably angry to hear this. The thought of his beautiful Q, now nothing more than a pile of ashes, makes him sick. He says nothing in response and looks blankly at M, who sits impeccably dressed and grave-faced across from him.

_I’m sorry this had to happen. I really am. We were all very fond of Q. He was such a sweet boy. I know how much you loved him. He loved you terribly, too._

M’s words mean nothing to James.

Both of them are silent for quite some time. There is nothing really that either of them can say to each other at this point that is of any use. At least, James doesn’t think there is.

M’s face is all tight lines and tired eyes. He looks much older than James remembers him being when he had seen him last. It hasn’t been very long, but a lot can change frighteningly quickly, as James has discovered the hard way. His world has collapsed in less than two weeks, after all. Q has been ripped away from him, and all of England thinks that he killed him.

 _I know you didn’t kill him_ , M says.

James laughs.

_What makes you so sure?_

_Because I know who did._

James stares at M in confusion.

_What are you talking about?_

M is perfectly still as he looks right back at James. His voice is unwavering, but he looks so tired, so spent, so unlike the M that James thought he knew.

_I had no choice._

_What are you trying to say?_

_Do you remember Skyfall, 007?_

_Naturally._

_The PM caught wind of it. I thought it was over and safely buried, but not even MI6’s secrets are safe. I had to deny any knowledge of what Q had done when he had laid the electronic trail for Raoul Silva to follow. Actions have consequences, 007. It was either you or Q. One of you would have to pay the price. Q took the fall for you._

_I don’t understand._

_What you did was essentially treason, 007. For all the PM cared, you had kidnapped the former M, and your reckless behaviour was what led to her death – the way they see it, you deliberately delivered her right into the hands of Raoul Silva. Someone had to answer to that. Neither you nor Q was ever supposed to find out that they knew, but Q had always been exceptionally bright. He realised what was going on almost immediately. He tried to clear your name, you know – hacked into our archives to alter your files in an attempt to absolve you of any involvement. Of course, they found out. It was getting out of hand. They ordered a hit. They wanted a Double-0 to do it, but I couldn’t have that. I thought we owed Q more than that. So I did it myself. I killed him. I never thought it would come to this._

James is absolutely speechless. He doesn’t know what, or how, to think any more.

M swallows hard, keeping his gaze fixed on him. There is another palpable silence as he falters, struggling to find the right way to continue.

_I was ready to admit to the murder and step down from my post, but they wouldn’t have it. It would cause much too large of a scandal. People would lose faith in the body that is meant to protect them – imagine how disgraceful it would be. So they chose the coward’s way out. They decided to pin the crime on you. Conveniently, your recent psychological evaluations show instability due to “unresolved childhood trauma.” It would be so simple, so believable – a mentally unstable MI6 agent with all the right means and strength to do so murders his lover one night. It made perfect sense._

So this was the truth. This was what really had happened. James feels so numb, so horribly numb. He sits there, rooted to his seat, unable to find any words or any thoughts within his mind that make any sense at all.

Q had died trying to protect James, and James had been framed to protect the reputation of MI6.

 _I’m sorry,_ _007,_ M says plainly, _This was never supposed to happen._ Both of them are still for a moment, before M finally tears his gaze away. Without another word, he gets up and leaves, closing the door behind him.

M is right. None of this was ever supposed to happen at all. Raoul Silva wasn’t supposed to escape. The former M wasn’t supposed to die. The PM wasn’t supposed to find out about Skyfall. Q wasn’t supposed to try bearing the burden of the consequences alone. He wasn’t supposed to throw away his future and his own life in an ill-fated attempt to save James. He wasn’t supposed to be too clever for his own good. James wasn’t supposed to be framed for Q’s murder. He wasn’t supposed to spend the rest of his life alone in a concrete prison.

He wasn’t supposed to be without Q, and Q wasn’t supposed to die young.

This was never supposed to happen.

**Author's Note:**

> Did any of you successfully guess who the killer was? I know I didn't really leave any hints, which I wish I had been able to find a good way of doing. I was kind of inspired by M's ambiguity in the beginning of Skyfall - at first, I wasn't sure if he was a "good guy" or a "bad guy." I didn't really mean for him exactly to be a "bad guy" here, rather, I sort of wanted to think about the grey area of right vs. wrong.
> 
> Again, I'm really sorry about how messy and convoluted this turned out to be. I should have integrated the ending a wee bit better within the rest of the fic.


End file.
